


Romance Ran Out Of Rhyme

by writetherest



Category: The West Wing
Genre: F/M, Ficlet
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-12
Updated: 2013-08-12
Packaged: 2017-12-23 06:33:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 847
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/923127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writetherest/pseuds/writetherest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>He doesn't bring flowers or chocolates or candles because while their relationship has been many things, it's never been a cliché and he's not ready for it to become one now.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Romance Ran Out Of Rhyme

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from a lyric from the Jim Brickman/Martina McBride song _Valentine_.

He's never been very good at the grand romantic gesture thing. (He's got a deed to a house that no one lives in to prove it.) But he has always been adequate – if not good – at the little things.

Which is why he lets himself into her house with the key she gave him but he very seldom uses just before four on a Tuesday night in February - _the_ Tuesday night in February, but he doesn't let himself think about that – and heads straight for the kitchen.

He doesn't bring flowers or chocolates or candles because while their relationship has been many things, it's never been a cliché and he's not ready for it to become one now. He simply moves around the kitchen – the one room he knows better than her in this house that isn't the house he wants her to be living in – preparing dinner.

And when the front door opens, she is heralded by the sound of Molly's happy shouts of "Daaaaaddy!" and Huck's calmer "Dad!". He scoops them both up and holds on tightly when they burst into the kitchen, a chorus of running feet and matching giggles. They're almost too big for him to do this now and he knows it won't be long before he cannot hold them both at once, but he's not quite ready to give this up just yet.

He kisses both of their cheeks and then looks through the gap between them to see her leaning against the doorway, watching. She raises an eyebrow at him, but says nothing. He offers her a half smile before depositing the twins back on the ground and adding a shrug to go with it.

"Why don't you two go wash up for dinner?" She coaxes and they race away, just as quickly as they came. He watches them go with a sad smile.

"It's almost ready." He says, turning back to stir the sauce again before flicking off the burner with a practiced hand.

"Is it now?" Her voice is near, but he doesn't let himself get distracted. Not yet.

He puts it all together while she sets the table and he relishes the feeling of just being together with her. The twins come down a few moments later, shattering the quiet, but only adding to the feeling, until he's got a smile that he can't quite contain on his face.

And it turns out that he's not always the best with the little things, because the pasta has mushrooms in it and she hates mushrooms, a fact that he can never quite remember because he's never really acknowledged it. But he remembers that she's allergic to seafood – he enjoys the irony of that too, the congresswoman from Maryland that cannot eat crabs – and he remembers her favorite wine (the one concession to this holiday that he'll allow). And that's enough for her to only pick the mushrooms out and not say a word to him about it.

After dinner, Molly and Huck pull out the white bags that they've covered with stickers and drawings of lopsided hearts surrounding their names, still written in large, uneven letters as much as he tries to impart the importance of proper penmanship to them. He allows them to pull out and show off each one in turn, and he frowns at the number of cards Molly has gotten from boys, already dreading the days when his little beauty starts bringing them home.

When they've exhausted the bags, they both pull out large, handmade cards that read 'I Love You, Dad' and the spelling is perfect and that's more than enough for him. He hugs them tight – like his father never did – and tells them over and over in quiet whispers that he loves them. And he tucks them in with her, dropping kisses on their foreheads and wishing not for the first time that they'd never grow up.

And when they come back downstairs, he leads her to the living room and hits play on the stereo, enjoying the way she smiles when slow, smooth jazz fills the room. He shuts all the lights but one small lamp off and takes her into his arms. And whatever else that he's bad at, whatever else she's bad at, they've always been good at this. So they sway together and they don't say a word until the CD starts to wind down.

Only then does she pull back and look at him, her hand on the back of his neck like it's always been there. "Tonight was good, Toby." She whispers to him.

He kisses her, and lets all the words that he'd like to say fall on the ground between them. Because they both understand without actually saying them.

The CD stops and she lets her hand fall from its place on his neck, leading him toward the stairs with the other hand that is clasped with his. There are no questions or doubts as they climb the stairs together.

And nothing is fixed, but maybe it's not as broken as everyone believes.  



End file.
